Alvar the Kingmaker

by Annie Whitehead

  Pointing to Edgar, he said, “It will do you no good to speak to the king about your children. See how Edgar loves our Lord Brandon.”

  Alfreda made as if to shoulder him aside, and he stepped back. She made her way over to where the king was standing, still with his arm around his foster-brother.

  Edgar was addressing his men. “We need to ride north with the lords Alvar and Beorn. Right now, they think that you can be bested by a child. Let us show these northern lords how you really fight. We leave at dawn.”

  His words were met with cheers, and the sound of spears thumping against shields.

  Edgar turned, saw Alfreda approaching, and smiled. “Now, I think, they are ready for a fight.”

  Alfreda knew that Oswald had followed her; she could hear the swish of his robes as he walked. Did he think she was so stupid as to petition the king immediately? She would get her children back, yes, but she would find another way.

  “My lord,” she said, “I saw the ships that you are building. Already they look as if they would scare away the mightiest Viking. Will you have them painted the same way as the dragon boats?”

  Over her shoulder, Oswald hissed his irritation, muttering about ignorant women who did not know that the blue paint on the Viking ships was derived from a colour that came from Arabia and was very costly. To the king he said, “Lord, women know little about such things, which is how it should be.”

  Edgar slipped his arm from Brandon’s shoulders, and turned towards Alfreda. He said, “Not at all. I had been wondering how we might paint our ships so that they are as fearsome as the Viking long ships. The lady has reminded me that I must now give it some thought.”

  He smiled, and even though his answer had been directed more at Oswald, she was gratified to note that his gaze had never wandered from her face.

  Edgar continued to stare into her eyes as he said, “My lords, let us go within and take our fill of food and drink, for tomorrow we ride hard.”

  He swept his arm forward, said, “Shall we?” and directed her to the hall.

  Alvar ruffled the lad’s hair, and took him over to one of the king’s thegns. “Get him something to eat. He has done us proud.” Still chuckling, he walked with Beorn to the hall.

  Beorn continued turning his head with the newcomer’s instinct for observation. He pointed to Alfreda, gliding gracefully alongside Edgar and said, “The king knows how to stir the fire in the bellies of his men. And she knows how to stir his fire. If she was your mark, you had better think again.”

  Alvar deflected the comment. “She only did it to irk the bishop. Look.” He nodded in the direction of Oswald, who was chewing his lip as if a wasp had just landed in his mouth.

  Beorn said, “I do not like that man.”

  Alvar laughed and thumped him on the back. “I knew I was right to befriend you.”

  In the hall, he and Beorn settled their men on the mead-benches before taking their seats on the head table. Dunstan was not there and neither was the archbishop of York. Despite the presence of two other bishops, Oswald sat nearest to the king as if he were the senior cleric in the room. Apart from Alvar and Beorn, most of the other secular lords present were local men who held land in the south and southeast, and Lord Brandon took his place on Edgar’s other side, as if he were the highest ranking earl.

  When they were all sitting down, Edgar produced one of his rare smiles and publicly welcomed Beorn. “Now that we have a steadfast Northumbrian to share the drinking horn, every man is in his place, and my kingdom is truly whole.” In a tone which was almost playful, he said, “Lord Alvar has not only kept the Welsh border safe, but has been riding round the north for a twelve-month, gathering men to my banner. Now he has come south, bringing me a pair of Northumbrian eyes, and on the way he found time to put down a band of wolf’s heads who were bent on killing him and mocking my laws. To put it simply, to ask Alvar that a thing be done is to know that it will be done. Straight away.”

  Alvar sat back in his chair, Edgar’s endorsement of his skills warming his ears and the back of his neck, and the ever-present sense of unworthiness gnawing at his belly. Edgar was lauding him, and yet his career had begun with the breaking of an oath. Was this why he tried so hard?

  He had hardly had time to reflect since the wheels began spinning. He was hurtling along in a cart full of guilt, attempting to prove himself worthy and, as a soldier in peacetime looking for a purpose, he had tried his hand at politics. He had been so busy trying to justify the decision to abandon the Fairchild that he had barely stopped to assess how Edgar had acquitted himself as king. So far, the youngster had not had to defend his kingdom, but he had not sat idle and the burhs were fully manned, the ships nearly built, and the loyalty of the provinces assured.

  Loyalty. It was the backbone of their society, his reason for swearing initially to the Fairchild. It was such an integral component of life that it heightened his determination to stand by Edgar, or forever be a man who broke an oath for nothing. So whilst Edgar’s achievements were measurable, it made little difference; Alvar was tied to his king, come what may, even when the churchmen tried to pull Edgar away from martial concerns to those which better served their own interests.

  And, as if reading his thoughts, Oswald spoke now, to downplay the attack on Alvar and Beorn, and to deflect Edgar’s exaltation of their prowess. “Wolf’s heads or not, it is godlessness which drives such men. These were not trained weapon-men, surely, but men who should spend more time in prayer. Church rules are not being followed and…”

  Edgar nodded as if in agreement, but his eyes were shining as he interrupted the bishop. “We still need to ride there, to show them what we think of their craven attack. I have been blessed; the Vikings have stayed away from my shore. But even though there is no Viking threat, we should not sit easy. So I build up my fleet, I feed my weapon-men and, when we are threatened, we fight.” When Oswald opened his mouth to protest, Edgar touched his arm. “Thus, men will know not to break my peace, and we gain time to spend on other things, as my forebear Alfred did. Learning and faith; these things matter. So we must spread out, to the borders and beyond, building monasteries as we go. Church and sword must weigh one as heavy as the other. I will lean as much on my churchmen as I do on my lords, and in this way not only do we strengthen the kingdom, but we draw them all together.”

  Alvar thought that, paradoxically, the methods of which Edgar spoke also kept the various factions apart, vying for power and his attention.

  Edgar had spoken at length and with passion about building his kingdom into something more akin to an empire, strengthened by military might and an influential Church. Alvar was not naïve; he knew that Edgar would always play the lords against the bishops, striking a balance between those who must remain celibate and those who could found strong dynasties. The only question was whether Edgar realised the depth of division between the two sides. And, however convivial the evening, there was an absence of warmth. Edgar continued to praise, compliment and mock in equal measure. He spoke his mind and was never less than forthright, but he did not always disclose all his thoughts and rarely his feelings. Alvar thought again about another hearth, far away from the court, where there had always been a spare seat by the fire, where there was never any dissembling.

  A servant knelt before him and offered a plate of summer pudding, egg custard, and shortbread, and Alvar realised that he must have chewed his way through the meat on his plate without noticing. The evening had turned into night. Jugs of ale and flagons of wine lined the tables, and the servants replaced them as soon as they were emptied. The jokes became obscene, the flirting more outrageous. Alfreda, forced by the East Anglians to sit further along the head table, had attracted a gaggle of admirers who kept her supplied with a steady stream of drinks and compliments. She repaid every gesture with the press of her hand upon the donor’s arm, hand or shoulder, depending on their proximity. When Brandon stood up and went to speak to one of his thegns, she made her apologies to her
new devotees and wriggled into the seat beside Edgar, where she applied the same gratifying technique every time the king spoke to her. She drank thirstily and frequently, staring at Alvar during every lull in the conversation.

  Beorn, still keenly assessing all that could be gleaned from these new acquaintances, was quick to spot the incongruity. “Her arrow is aimed at the king and yet her sight is set on you. I have never seen a hunter so doleful about their kill. How do you feel about that, my friend?”

  Alvar opened his mouth in quick response, but then closed it to consider his answer. Beorn was not overly perceptive; Alfreda’s opinion of Alvar had never been in doubt. He had often wondered what odious act he would have to commit before she changed her mind about him, for she seemed to have decided long before she met him that she would like him. Alvar smiled bitterly at that. He could name straight away a woman who had been immune to his charms and he, never able graciously to accept a compliment, was inclined to assume that hers had been the correct assessment. With that, his thoughts took a morose turn, and the humourless smile dropped altogether. In answer to his friend’s query he said, “No matter how loudly love might call, the path that must be followed often goes another way. The bed might even be softer there.”

  Beorn nudged him. “Well, bedtime is a long way off for us. Have a drink, friend, I am getting ahead of you.” He whistled softly and waved his cup in the direction of the dais, slopping his drink. “See that?”

  Edgar was on his feet and was holding his arm out, gesturing towards the door. “Lady Alfreda, walk with me.”

  Her features fixed in neutral expression, she nodded and stood up. She dipped at the knee to offer the tiniest curtsey, and followed him.

  Bishop Oswald clutched the edge of the table and half stood up. He called out, “Lord King, you ride to a fight in the morning. Would your time this evening not be better spent in prayer?”

  Edgar turned round and stared at the bishop. “No, my lord. That is what I keep you for.”

  Alvar laughed. Whatever sharp-pointed thoughts had pricked his brain this evening, the pain was fleetingly nullified by Oswald’s mortification, as the bishop sank red-faced back into his chair.

  Chapter Eight AD964

  Winchester

  Swytha shook her head and tutted. “She will not smile even a little.”

  Alvar grinned. “She is cross because she knows that she looked better this morning.” It amused him, though, to see that even though Alfreda was dressed now in a drab, shapeless, homespun robe, she had managed to find a braided cord to draw it in around her slender waist. But it was still a dreary comedown for her, compared with the stunning attire of the earlier ceremony. That morning-gown, made from the delicate Godweb silk, had been the same red hue as her mouth, and the whisper of under-sleeve had glowed white like her lily cheeks. Alvar licked his lips.

  Swytha frowned.

  “What? I said naught…”

  “You did not have to,” she said. “Put your tongue away, brother, and remember that this morning the lady was wearing her wedding clothes.” She looked forward again but whispered from the side of her mouth. “And that we are in a church.”

  The king was still dressed in his wedding costume; a floor length, shot-silk tunic, finished round the neckline and front opening with embroidery of gold thread, and the softest leather boots, so supple and comfortable that they would not withstand even a day’s normal wear outside. Beside him, in her simple garb, Alfreda could now rely only on her looks and she gazed down at her plain dun robes and wrinkled her straight little nose. She put her head up and looked out into the crowd, her features fixed and giving no further insight to her thoughts.

  Swytha wrinkled her own nose as yet more incense wafted over the congregation. “With first the wedding and now this, I feel as if I have been in this minster all day. My feet ache.”

  Alvar murmured in agreement and rocked on the balls of his feet. He looked across at Athelwold and marvelled how the abbot had changed since acquiring the bishopric of Winchester. He stood to their left, swathed in a blue chasuble bordered with the elaborate golden embroidery known as orphrey. Alvar felt again the dull ache in his belly. Athelwold’s investiture as bishop of Winchester the previous year had been grand, opulent and every bit as boring as today’s event. Alvar had looked at every face in the crowd as he shuffled and squirmed in the new minster, but none of the lords of Cheshire had made the journey south. How many times since then had he snapped at his thegns and officials, who kept him so busy at home, and cursed the Welsh who remained in their own lands and gave him no excuse to ride to Cheshire?

  Bishop Athelwold lifted an elegant sleeve and put a finger discreetly under his nose to catch a drop of moisture. The woven silk shimmered exquisitely. He nearly outshone the archbishop, and, amongst these elegantly clad churchmen, Alfreda must feel dull indeed.

  Except that today it would not have been difficult to outshine the archbishop; Alvar had seen thunderclouds less black than Dunstan’s expression. During the preparation for the ceremonies, Athelwold, the champion of vulnerable women, had impressed Alvar and annoyed Dunstan all at once, arguing eloquently and vehemently in favour of Alfreda’s consecration as queen. Alvar, no less concerned for Alfreda’s wellbeing, and, truth be told, eager to exploit the opportunity to triumph over Dunstan, had pointed out the political advantages to be made. In Wessex, the wife of a king was seldom named queen; in Mercia, she always was. Edgar could bring his peoples together with such a gesture. Dunstan, comfortable for so long being the custodian of Edgar’s sin, saw his leverage slipping away as Edgar repudiated the saintly Wulfreda. The king was smitten with the widow from East Anglia and he would have no other. The meeting had taken less than an hour. Alvar mused that wars had lasted years with less decisive upsets in the balance of power. And it was no longer a private matter; anyone looking at the archbishop and his sour expression would be left in no doubt as to how he felt about his task this day.

  What was not so easy for Alvar to understand, though, was why Alfreda had agreed to marry Edgar. He had assumed… Well, no matter, he had been wrong before. But he was convinced that this was no love match, and he wondered why she would suffer another loveless marriage. It had been clear for some time that she saw some advantage in being Edgar’s woman, but to be his wife? Once again, Alvar was surprised by what folk, even a beautiful woman like her, were prepared to do. Was it, in fact, he who was the fool, for all that he was prepared to do without?

  Whatever her reasons, at least Alfreda would be able to use the title of queen for her whole life, and any future children would be named as high athelings, born of a king and a queen. He muttered under his breath. “But see how it sticks in Dunstan’s throat.”

  Archbishop Dunstan’s lips were drawn into a thin line, almost disappearing into the folds of his fleshy face. As he anointed Alfreda with holy oil, his arm moved in stiff jerks, as if tense muscles were fighting against the lightness of touch that was required to consecrate the woman as queen.

  Alvar, too, winced, as the plain-chant began again. “Here is that din once more. I do not mind the scops when they sing, but these monks with their psalm-singing…”

  Swytha rested her hand on his arm. “It will soon be over.”

  Alvar glanced again at Alfreda. She was well known for her love of the finer things in life, but this grim set of her mouth surely could not be merely the result of being forced to dress in a lowly fashion? As soon as Alvar and Athelwold were convinced that she was willing to agree to the marriage, they had both done what they could to strengthen her position. Pray God that they did not all find themselves wishing that they had listened to Dunstan after all.

  Alvar, standing by the hearth in the crowded dining hall of the king’s palace, turned as Alfreda walked through the doorway. She mouthed a few words as if in prayer as she searched the throng with her gaze, and he made his way to her side.

  She rested her fingers on his arm. “Thank you. I felt as if I were drowning amongst so
many folk whom I do not know.” She gave him a regal nod and a practised smile.

  “Why did you wed him?”

  Alfreda put her arm down and blinked twice. “You have a blunt way of speaking, my lord.”

  He smiled. “Forgive me, my lady. I am becoming well known for it.”

  She put her head to one side and stared at him, as if in appraisal. She straightened up and gave him another smile, this time of friendship. “There is naught to forgive. I will tell you why I said yes to the match. The king wooed me and pledged riches to me and my kin.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  Alfreda lowered her voice. “You are right. The truth is that when the king asked me, I had many thoughts. I thought, who will say no to the queen? Who would dare to beat the queen?” Her head came up and she thrust her chin forward, but there were tears in her eyes when she said, “And who will take the queen’s children from her?”

  He swallowed hard. He knew that when she arrived at court her sons by Elwood of Ramsey had remained in East Anglia, but he had assumed that she had wished it so. Now he could see that Elwood’s kin had a hand in the deed. “You have had many burdens to bear. I am sorry for you.”

  Alfreda breathed in, and her shoulders shook. “I asked the lord Brandon for news of my children, which he would not give me. Bishop Oswald warned me not to ask the king for help, and then the archbishop said of the wedding that if the king took the widow, he should leave the sons.”

  Alvar swore. It was no surprise that Dunstan would want Alfreda’s sons out of the way, for he would not wish to see any full-grown athelings come forward to challenge the claim of Edward, the king’s son by Wulfreda. But it was more an act of spite than an effective strategy; Dunstan’s hopes for Edward were dependant on Alfreda’s producing no more children. Whilst they would be younger than Edward, any future issue would rank more highly, being born to a king and his consecrated queen. Dunstan was forced to play a waiting game before he could see his hopes for Edward realised. Alvar said, “Sometimes I think that Dunstan might have fathered that child himself. It is no wonder that he would rather have eaten fire than see you named queen.”